The Things They Wear
by heza08
Summary: A short description of certain items and features worn by the Gaang and what they represent.


**The Things They Wear**

* * *

It should have passed to her from her mother's hands. Instead, other beloved fingers, wrinkled and gnarled, tie it around her neck. It is blue, but even though it is still pristine, it is stained. On dark nights, it smells of soot and blood, and the memory is slippery between her fingers. But these are not the things that make her wrap it around her throat like armor. She imagines that it also carries the scent of a blue-eyed woman with skin like hers and a face with angles and curves hers will grow into someday. She touches the waves and swirls, and the edges are familiar and comforting—like a hug or fingers in her hair. Wearing it conjures the image of someone she will never see again but who is, nonetheless, always with her. It is the embodiment of sacrifice, and donning it makes her a vessel for every pure thing she has learned—love, determination, courage, and all the other strengths that were laid out in a canoe and set to drift in the ice all those years ago.

It is a Necklace.

It is a Reminder.

~ * ~

His father helps him shave the sides and binds the long top strands into a leather thong. This is the way a man wears his hair. And even though he has not yet piloted a ship through a gauntlet of ice bergs, he feels like a man, today. His painted face, fierce eyes, and club of bone and blue stone are totems, testaments of his dedication as he tries to board his father's ship, intent on paying back an enemy of whom he has seen far too much already. But a man knows where he is needed, he is told, and the man-child looks around him at the sorrowful faces of the elders and the children, his own blood among them, who are being left to his protection. They are soft copper countenances, sapphire eyes, and mahogany and ivory hair, and it is an honor to guard them. As the ships drift out with the tide, their sails filled with foreboding, this too-young man—on whom obligation has suddenly piled its responsibilities—feels the wind on his scalp and is keenly aware of his duty.

It is a Warrior's Wolf Tail.

It is a Promise.

~ * ~

Green and gold cover a quarter of her tiny form, but they don't weigh her down; the colors give her the wings her parents are determined to clip. It is a mantel worn by a small girl, the fragile figurine of a wealthy family, a little bandit whose unfocused eyes never settle on the things around her. While she obviously cannot see its buckle, she traces the pattern with dirty fingers and knows it is the picture of freedom. Under the standard of a flying boar, she is pampered, sheltered, and chained; in the arena, she is magnificent. The prize she battles to reclaim each year reminds her of this act of defiance, of the way she keeps her secrets and smiles with cleverly feigned innocence while her teacher instructs her in the basics of bending. It is a comfort, wrapping around her middle like a friend, supportive and necessary, and she will need it. Soon, her dusty feet will feel the pounding of fate across a distant land, the imminent arrival of change.

It is a Belt.

It is a Symbol of Strength.

~ * ~

He never forgets it is there. Red and writhing, it folds across his face like a flag. It does not need the black insignia in its center to be a banner of his nation. It was born of fire, seared in anger, and won through an act of dishonor—a common consequence of his father's reign. If he touches it, it will be dead and unfeeling under his fingertips, and yet, it is a constant agony, burned deeply into his being and noticed every day below its surface. It is an inescapable reminder of too many losses for the young man to voice, and so he becomes quiet and brooding. His amber eye peers through it, and it shades his understanding of the world. Although he is a prince, it is evidence that he is as war torn as the lands that host his exile, and he mourns his plundered future. But it masks a spark of resolve, flickering and flaring, the color of whose flame will depend on what tender feeds it. It is a blight that announces his disgrace, but he does not realize it is also a badge earned the first time he questioned the policies of his people.

It is a Scar.

It is a Turning Point.

~ * ~

The mark caresses his bare scalp and molds to his spine; it is the brand of a living relic, an antique of the flesh from another century. Once, it was worn by many, but now, it is the last of its kind. For all that it is only blue ink and spirit magic, it is undeniably heavy, and it places the problems of the world upon his head. A warrior's helm, a chieftain's headdress, a sage's miter—it is too big for the boy to comfortably wear. It is unexpectedly bright—a beacon that calls others to him, others he does not know how to lead. It points toward a destiny that he has never asked for and doesn't know if he can face. But even though he is scared, even though he has tried to hide before, he now follows the path that has been laid out before him because it also points toward friends who are family and a world on the cusp of changing. He knows he cannot turn his back this time. It is the hallmark of an Airbender, and being that he is the last, it is, consequently, the emblem of the Avatar.

It is an Arrow.

It is a Sign of Hope.


End file.
